Under My Protection
by clemonlime
Summary: Prompt: Hotch and Reid never met. Reid is in danger. The government puts Hotch in charge of Reid's safety.


When Hotch walked into the room that currently housed the most sought-after human being in the world of hitmen and universally evil people, he imagined there would be a tall man with Popeye-esque muscles in scary, ripped clothes sitting on the metal bench with his hands braced against his knees and his teeth bared, sharp and glinting in the buzzing LED lights of the underground bunker that criminally wanted men and women were held when they were in need of government protection. After he had ducked through countless electrified gates and cement-block obstacles, there was nothing else he should have expected.

What he did not anticipate, however, was to step into the room and lock eyes with a tiny man curled up in a steel chair in the corner, chewing on his thumbnail and seemingly drowning in a tweed jacket and beige sweater vest. Basically, a college professor from a Tim Burton film in the throes of a suppressed panic attack in a maximum security holding cell surrounded by big men in suits with guns.

"I'm Agent Hotchner," he began slowly, somewhat hoping that the skinny professor would shake his head and point him in the direction of the big man he would actually be providing protection for.

"Dr. Spencer Reid," the other man almost breathed, standing up and throwing a hand out for a shake. He was shaking, obviously uncomfortable with the concept, but Hotch decided to accept it. "You could call me Spencer or Reid, I don't mind."

Hotch nodded and gave him a sturdy handshake, "Hotch, please."

He gestured for Spencer to sit, which he did quickly and without hesitation. His spindly fingers gravitated toward his temples, pressing down and sending apologetic glances through his eyelashes as he filled out all the paperwork he needed; contracts, liabilities, all the loopholes closed and tied shut, and Spencer was glad to do so, signing his name anywhere and everywhere he was asked.

"So," Hotch said, tucking the loose papers into a Confidential file and handing it back to the bodyguards standing by, "Legally, I have to ask why you're here and why you're in need of protection."

"Okay," Spencer nodded, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was obvious he'd been asked why he was there several times and had compressed his story quite a bit, "I work at a university in Vegas, and my superintendent gave me a baseline research project that only he would see as, like, a secret check in on my comprehension." He waved his hands around, gesturing wildly to generally imply how stupid he was to accept such a strange request, "He must have known I was a sucker for a research assignment."

"And what was the paper on?"

"Some code. Like enigma," Spencer replied sadly, edging on anger directed at himself, "I was almost done with it. It was some scary stuff, but I figured he wouldn't just give me something easy to do a paper on. I don't know what he would have done with it. Before I got too far, these guys picked me up and threw me into the back of a truck and brought me here."

"I'll only be accompanying you as some sort of a bodyguard until your employer is caught and arrested," Hotch said, almost finalizing the paper exchange and making sure to assess the situation and explain the scope of what was going on. That was how this usually went. "Did they brief you?"

"Yeah," Spencer rubbing his arm self-consciously.

"They hurt you?" Hotch asked quietly.

"A little," he said carefully, "Nothing too bad, though. I'm fine."

Hotch reached over and rolled the beige sleeve of Spencer's shirt up, inspecting. "It'll bruise."

"I know," Spencer replied matter-of-factly, "But I can live."

"You won't be harmed any more," Hotch said, giving the suited men by the door a look of anger. Spencer nodded happily, sending a similar look to them before crossing his legs over and tapping nervously on the metal table. Hotch shook his head. There was no way Spencer knew who was after him.

Within 24 hours, it was abundantly clear that Spencer didn't understand the trouble he was in. He'd begin to head to the door without warning Hotch where he was going, he'd call for a pizza in the middle of the night and not understand why Hotch drew his gun when there was a knock at the door, he even tried to wander out into broad daylight to go to the library for yet another book. Hotch's patience was deteriorating, but he was strong-willed. He was definitely being put to the test, though.

He considered the Popeye guy may have been a bit more agreeable.

"I'm just going to the store," Spencer all but whined, trying to push Hotch back into the rickety hotel room that they would be shacked up in for a few days. "I'll just be down the street!"

"Dr. Reid," Hotch said, trying to keep himself stern in the face of such an amusing scene, "You have to understand, the people after you... they're most likely searching for you. Even if you pay for groceries in cash, they could track you in a heartbeat if you were caught unassisted on CCTV footage. I've got to be there to make sure you don't leave anything for them to find."

Spencer puffed his chest up and kept his keys clenched in his fist, "I'm going."

"You're not."

"Am too," he said, turning on his heel and reaching for the door handle.

Hotch stood swiftly from the bed. He wasn't sure what had gotten into Spencer's mind, maybe he was just cranky or stubborn, but he felt it was necessary to do this anyway. Scare him a little, make sure he knew how serious it was. Before the younger man knew what was happening, Hotch's hands were curled in the lapels of his cardigan and Spencer was pushed against the wall of the hotel. Spencer's face was locked in a wide-eyed terror-face, his hands up by his ears and his forearms pressed against Hotch's chest. The other man just stared him down with all the seriousness he could muster for a long time before opening his mouth to say, "You're not."

The young doctor's eyes were like glass as he looked back into Hotch's stony ones, "I-I..."

"I need you to listen to me, Dr. Reid," Hotch said softly but sternly, "I'm here to make sure you're safe until they scoop up Jason Gideon and have him contained behind bars, because then no guns will be pointed at you. Then I'll let you do things by yourself. We're attached to the hip for now, no matter how much you want to sleep alone, I am being _paid_ to make sure you don't make _one step_ unsupervised and hear me when I say that I promised I would do exactly that."

Spencer licked his lips and nodded carefully, saying nothing but letting his mouth hang slack.

"Please understand," Hotch began to loosen his grip but didn't back off. He could feel Spencer's breath on his upper lip, "I care. I don't want you hurt."

Another nod and another peek of his tongue out of his lips, and Hotch began to realize how close he was. He backed off and gave a good six feet of distance between them, his calves hitting the side of the mattress.

Spencer sighed in defeat and a slight bit of relief. He tucked his keys onto the nearest surface and slumped on the wall. Hotch let him; that had probably been the closest contact he'd had in awhile, considering how he had frozen up. There was no place for him to apologize, as much as he wanted to. Spencer piped up after awhile, "Who's after me anyway?"

"Y'know the CIA?" Hotch asked. Spencer nodded vigorously. Of course he did. "They're like that, but scarier, and with fewer morals."

"Are they the government?" Spencer asked carefully. The fear was present in his eyes. He was some sort of English professor by the looks of it, sure, and he had most likely read several Encyclopedias in his day, so he most likely understood the implications.

"Might as well be," Hotch said, his tone serious and his eyebrows set like stone on the bridge of his nose.

Spencer cowered and grabbed his keys for a final time, "Fine."

"Hotch?"

The agent groaned, holding a pillow over his face. The guy had interrupted his sleep for many hours. He was used to talking people down from the terrifying high of being criminally wanted, sure, but those people usually passed out after an hour or two of worrying. Spencer just kept it coming.

"What do you _want,_ Reid?" Hotch asked petulantly, rolling over in the creaking bed to look at Spencer, who was still propped up in his bed with a book held limply in both hands. "I've told you, you're going to be fine as long as I'm here to make sure no one messes with you."

"I know, but still," he frowned at his hands and let out a long sigh, "I've never been in this position before, man. I'm just a teacher, I didn't intend for any of this to happen."

Hotch propped himself up on his elbows, shaking himself awake at the earnest tone of his words, "You were a teacher with a sketchy superintendent, you couldn't help it."

"He's not sketchy," Spencer mumbled under his breath, shifting on the bed and letting his book fall onto the blanket beside him.

Hotch stared at him and things began to make sense. Dr. Spencer Reid; he was an English professor because it was all they would give him at his age regardless of his credentials, he was manipulated left and right by people of higher status than him, and Spencer was oblivious to it all. There must have been some sort of protection for him when he was little to shield him from harm; how else would he have missed all of the obvious red flags of being controlled like a marionette?

"Spencer," he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard, mirroring the other man's position, "What did your parents do for a living?"

"Mom was a history professor," Spencer said, almost distantly, his eyes wide and looking at Hotch to search for a reason why he'd ask, "I don't know what my dad did. I don't think about him too much."

"He left." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah."

"How early?" Hotch was almost hesitant to ask. The thought of Spencer having a less-than-perfect childhood made his heart ache.

"Not sure. Never asked." Spencer chewed on his bottom lip, "Why?"

"Did your mom ever hire a babysitter that seemed to hang around way too often when your mom wasn't home?"

"Yeah?" Spencer squinted at him, "Was he a spy or something?"

"No," Hotch shook his head, "I'm just trying to put you together."

"Like a puzzle?" He smiled.

Hotch nodded and rested his head against the cold wood of the headboard, letting his eyes flutter closed, "Yeah. Like a puzzle."

Spencer had been calm throughout the first weeks. Hotch was surprised to confirm to himself that the kid was overall fine, although shaken and sometimes anxious, No tears, no overwhelmed manner or status, he was doing good for a skinny professor hiding from people with guns. They had moved around quite a bit, changing states without a pattern in order not to strike up any suspicion for those watching. It was unlikely they'd pin Spencer as the culprit for anything just due to how he looked and acted, of course that may have just been wishful thinking on Hotch's part.

The obligatory shattering of the metaphorical glass happened in the bathroom of the hotel restaurant at one in the morning.

Hotch looked at his watch and pushed himself away from the table, standing. It had been ten minutes since Spencer had left to go to the bathroom. It was obvious he couldn't be in any real trouble from the people after him, but it was still disconcerting. Hopefully he hadn't gotten his tie stuck on the stall door or anything. Hotch began to walk toward the bathrooms; this was something he'd want to see.

Any remnants of a smile that was forming as he pushed the door open crashed and burned as he tried to comprehend the sad scene before him. Spencer was almost a puddle, curled up in the furthest corner of the bathroom with his hands tucked into his sweater and tears streaming down his face. He was silent though, trying to keep it together for an invisible but judgmental company. Spencer only recognized Hotch's presence when he crouched next to him and tilted his chin up with his fingers.

"Hey," Hotch said quietly.

Spencer stuttered for a long time, but couldn't seem to get the words out.

"You don't have to speak, I won't ask you anything except for this one thing." He leaned down to look into Spencer's eyes, "You're having a panic attack. Will physical contact make it worse?"

Spencer made a sad muffled noise, but Hotch recognized it as a definite yes. Hotch nodded slowly and sunk down next to him, making sure to leave some air between them. He felt terrible that he'd expected Spencer to handle the situation as well as he could. It wasn't a judgment against his character—even big guys, bigger than Hotch, would break down under the pressure. Spencer had done great, but all of the stress must have been tempered by Hotch's presence. He was alone for a few minutes and he was alone with his thoughts. Hotch frowned; he was supposed to be with the kid at all times. He'd failed him this time.

Eventually, exhausted from crying and thinking to himself, Spencer wilted and rested his head on Hotch's shoulder. The other man was confident in his poker face, but he swore he could feel lightning shooting through his bones at the touch. He grimaced— _Please God don't let me do this, don't let feelings happen._

Spencer hiccuped and groaned, "I..."

"I'm sorry I left you alone," Hotch said a bit more pitifully than he'd intended.

"If it makes you feel better... I-I'm sorry I let you leave me alone," Spencer offered in return.

Hotch chuckled, "That _does_ make me feel better."

"Hotch, what do you want on the pizza?" Spencer covered the bottom part of his phone with his fingertips, looking expectantly at the man sitting in his desk chair.

"I tell you every time," Hotch replied, not looking away from his book. "I'm not picky."

"Whatever," Spencer replied before going back to his phone call (on the disposable cell Hotch had given him) and ordering what sounded like the most fattening and disease-inducing pizza ever. Probably to make a point, Hotch decided. He glanced up just in time to catch Spencer's grin before he disappeared into the back room where he would wait until Hotch had successfully intercepted the pizza to check for any technological bugs on the box. He had also wanted to check the toppings and everything, but Spencer argued that no one would be stupid enough to put expensive equipment on something people would chew up and swallow. So he didn't do that anymore.

The knock finally came, and Hotch placed his hand on his gun in his coat pocket before peeking through the peephole, ultimately relieved when it was just a teen with a cap with a pizza logo on it. He did the usual tradition of awkward banter and fumbled money before shutting the door and checking all sides and creases of the box. Everything was in good shape.

"We're all clear," Hotch said, sliding the box onto the table and grabbing a paper plate. Spencer walked back in and excitedly piled his plate high before scurrying back to his bed and crawling into a comfortable position. Hotch followed, sitting with his legs crossed. Their thighs brushed and Hotch made an exaggerated silent scream as soon as Spencer turned away to get the remote.

They ate in silence, breaking it only when they would snort at the funny interviews on the local news. Spencer kept bumping his shoulder into Hotch's every time the reporters would make odd jokes about spies or mention conspiracy theories about the government (of which they did a lot), and every single time, Hotch's heart would speed up and he'd curse himself for getting so soft.

Sometime after dinner, when the box was empty and their plates were stacked up on the nightstand, Spencer dozed off and Hotch didn't bother to move from where he was. He glanced over at the sleeping man beside him and almost wanted to punch himself in the face— _why the hell do I wanna just run my fingers through his hair? Damn!_

His cell phone ringing broke him out of his weird deviation and he quickly answered.

 _"He slipped up. We've got him somewhere on the West Coast."_

"Who?" Hotch asked, dumbly, still a bit shaken up, "Gideon?"

 _"That's the one."_

Hotch nodded. Everything seemed to slow down a bit and he frowned, hanging up the call and looking back down to Spencer. They were weeks away, maybe even days away from catching Spencer's mentor and everything would be back to normal. And normal meant never seeing Spencer again and protecting someone else. But he didn't want to protect someone else. _God, I'm so lost._

"Hotch?"

He blinked. Spencer was awake and waving his hands in front of his face.

"Are you okay?" He asked quietly, "You look really pale."

"I'm fine," Hotch lied through his teeth, the bitterness more present than he thought it would be, "Go back to sleep."

"Hotch, no."

Spencer laid his hand on Hotch's arm. Hotch jerked away like he was burned and Spencer retrieved his hand, an expression of hesitant hurt on his face. Hotch shook his head.

"Go back to sleep, please. We'll need to relocate in the morning."

He slid off the bed and went to his own. Spencer just watched him.

There was no was Spencer hadn't noticed his dramatic change in Hotch's behavior, but he was being very cooperative. Of course he was, he was Spencer. But still. Hotch could admit to himself that this was a seriously pointless case of hetero-freaking out and that it was counterproductive, however he couldn't admit it to anyone else. He somewhat regretted devoting all his time and energy into his job, because perhaps if he hadn't, he'd have a best friend to talk to about what was going on in his head.

The professor in his care was more than forgiving—in fact, Hotch wasn't sure if Spencer had actually spoken in quite awhile. He fought with himself for a long time over how he should break his silence, because he knew he was being stubborn and he hated it. In the supremely rare case that Spencer mirrored or slightly agreed to his own feelings, he didn't want to hurt him.

"Dr. Reid," Hotch murmured, appearing from behind the separator wall that he'd been hiding behind for a good hour or two. Spencer looked up from his book, his glasses hanging on the tip of his nose. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, fine," Spencer replied quietly, nodding to himself in order to convince his own mind that that was the answer. "Thanks."

Hotch frowned and crossed the room, sitting at the foot of Spencer's bed. He didn't look up. The agent sighed and scooted closer. No reaction. He placed his hand on Spencer's thigh.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asked. It was obviously meant to sound exasperated but came out as a plea.

"I'm trying to get your attention," Hotch replied slowly. "What's going through your mind, right now?"

"Well," Spencer closed his book, "I kinda want to know what the person on your phone said. Before you started acting grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy."

Spencer held a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, "You're _so_ grumpy."

Hotch shook his head and a smile. He missed the natural flow of conversation with words rather than the general facial cues and hand gestures to indicate wants, needs, and emotions. As much as he loved to watch Spencer interact with the world around him— _Fuck! I'm so gay for him, what is happening to me_ —he also liked the sound of Spencer's voice and how it rose and fell and how his eyes seemed to smile at him when he ushered himself into protective mode and pulled his gun at the silliest moments. God, the domesticity of it all made his heart weak.

"Hotch."

He blinked. Spencer was in front of him, close and looking worried.

"Yeah," he said distantly, rubbing his face with his hands. He didn't want to have this conversation because there were two ways it could end, and neither one was satisfying. "Anyway."

"Yes," Spencer nodded in agreement, "What did the person say on the phone?"

"They're close to finding Gideon."

Spencer's face didn't change, but his body almost keened forward, "What?"

"Somewhere on the West Coast," Hotch said quietly, his fingers picking at a loose thread of the blanket on the blanket, "He fucked up and paid with a technological credit. It was under a fake name, but it's obviously him. We know it's him."

"Oh," Spencer nodded. "And you heard that and got upset."

"I guess."

"Why?" Spencer asked quickly. He rushed the word out like it was too scalding hot to hold in his mouth, but was worried to say it regardless. "I mean... do you not wanna find him?"

Hotch just sighed and looked up at him.

Spencer squinted, "Why wouldn't you want to find him?"

Hotch didn't move.

"Hotch?" Spencer waved his hand in front of his face a few times, "Hotch, why didn't you want to find him?"

Hotch didn't lose eye contact.

"Okay, let me try... okay," Spencer shifted on the bed a bit to look straight forward at the man whose face was stony yet pleading, as if this new angle would allow him to read minds, "This is your job, right? You're getting paid to do this, protect me or whatever. You're getting something out of Gideon's capture, so why don't you want him caught? What's the gain to fit the loss?"

Hotch was a statue. He wore a pained look on his face but he just looked into Spencer's eyes and prayed he'd misinterpret things. But he was smart. He'd find out eventually.

"Nothing? Alright," Spencer leaned closer than he already was and Hotch's heart sunk into his stomach, "So, you're hired to protect a skinny guy that talks too much and reads too fast, and as soon as you get your hands on the man that got him here, you'll be paid and you'll move on. But why don't you want to find that man?"

Hotch felt defeated. He just kept staring.

Spencer stared back, tilting his head like a puppy who was confused, which was an accurate analysis. "Hotch, are you scared you're not gonna be my friend anymore?"

Hotch grimaced. He was close, but so far off, and he just wanted to scream the answer but it wouldn't bode well for his case if he was shrieking and a mess in front of the one person he wanted the most in the entire world.

"After this is done," Hotch began slowly, his voice so quiet and mousy it almost sounded like a whole different person, "I will completely disappear from your life. You can't mention me, you can't write about me in anything, you can't use any anecdotes about me in your daily life. I'm going to immediately be reinstated as someone else's bodyguard, for lack of a better term, and basically have to forget about you."

"But you can't?" Spencer asked quietly.

"I don't want to," Hotch said.

"Oh." Spencer nodded and pondered on that for awhile before looking up at Hotch, "Oh, my God."

Hotch turned his attention back to his lap and ran a hand through his hair.

"Oh, my God. Hotch," Spencer sounded amazed, "Are you in love with me?"

Hotch didn't like how he phrased that. He mostly expected a _do you like me?_ But he hadn't anticipated the strong impact to the chest those six words would cause, nor did he expect how nice Spencer's voice would sound when he said it.

"Hotch. Hotch, oh my God." Spencer put a hand over his mouth, "You are."

Hotch shook his head, feeling his throat close. He needed to leave, but he knew he couldn't, and that made him feel way too vulnerable. He'd gotten too invested in Spencer, and now he was paying the price.

Or not.

Careful, soft fingers wrapped around his wrist before he could stand to create distance between them. Finally, he looked up and saw that Spencer was crying, and not only was he crying, he was smiling. Tears were overflowing onto his cheeks and he was glowing.

Hotch didn't say anything. He just sunk back down onto the bed to sit next to Spencer, wondering if it was okay to comfort him, but his thoughts were interrupted as Spencer scooted as close as possible without actually phasing through Hotch's body and gave him the most lovely, encompassing hug that either of them had ever partaken in. Hotch let his fingers brush against the back of Spencer's neck and Spencer, well, he had his hands gripping the back of Hotch's shirt so hard they were both sure the shirt's fabric would be stretched beyond belief, but neither cared.

Jason Gideon was captured three days later. Spencer's record was cleansed and all the accusations were transferred to Gideon. He went to trial and was sentenced life plus forty years, and Spencer was happy to take the stand. Hotch stood in the back with a smug smile on his face because Spencer was a man of words. Lots of them. Lots of very long, very smart words.

Hotch resigned as soon as the trials and paperwork were all said and done. It was a fairly speedy matter, though, considering the fact that Gideon was easy to provoke a confession out of and admit defeat. Spencer was offered a conversation with him, one last time, but he declined and linked his arm with Hotch's and sauntered to his car.

Spencer's things were promptly moved from his seedy apartment to Hotch's house, as they both agreed Hotch's house was much safer now that scary not-CIA people knew his apartment's address. From there, he met Jack and Jessica and learned their hobbies and where Jack went to school and who Jessica was and why she was there and who Haley was and why she wasn't there anymore. As soon as Jessica left and Jack was asleep, Spencer walked up to Hotch and gave him another hug, praising him for his bravery and telling him how great of a father he was. Hotch just smiled and hugged him back, muttering a hesitant but fully meant "I love you."


End file.
